


this is how we do it (in the nine-nine)

by ravenraiyes



Series: title of your sex tape! [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Police, Brooklyn Nine-Nine AU, F/M, basically bellamy is jake & clarke as amy, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenraiyes/pseuds/ravenraiyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke shakes her hand at him, wiping the wet spot down on his arm (“Ew, really, Griffin? <i>Real</i> mature." "Oh, shut up Blake, that's rich, coming from <i>you</i>.”) for a few moments before she really registers his words.</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>He shrugs, gesturing to the monitors sitting in front of them.  </p><p>“They’re getting away, Griffin, and if you actually used your ears for once, we’d be chasing them right now - hey, I’m in the middle of degrading your crappy detective skills, Griffin, where are you going?”</p><p>(Or, the Brooklyn Nine-Nine AU that you never really wanted but was written anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is how we do it (in the nine-nine)

**Author's Note:**

> i spent the entirety of two days binge-watching brooklyn nine-nine and my shipper heart wasn't satisfied until the very last episode why 
> 
> and this is how this was born, because, as always, i am bellarke trash.

 

“I’m not going to come until they do something about it, Blake.” Clarke says irritably, flicking a rubber band at Bellamy’s face - which, okay, _ow_ \- but doesn’t realize her fatal mistake before he whirls around in the chair, crowing in triumph, finger pointing at Clarke.

 

“Title of your sex tape!”

 

"Ugh, can you just shut your mouth for one second?" Clarke growls, looking just about ready to tear out her hair. "Just one second, Blake, that’s all I’m asking."

 

"Yeah, I could do that," he chooses to say instead, after a slight pause in the conversation, because he is a honest to god asshole - seriously, if he could have it tattooed on his forehead without messing up his dashing looks, he would - and he actually really does enjoy hearing the sound of his own voice.

 

"I won't, though, since the sound of my voice is rather nice, Griffin. I like hearing it."

 

“I cannot believe I got saddled with _you_ of all people, Blake, you’re like a five year old in a grown man’s body -” Clarke hisses, shoving her fingers over his mouth in attempt to stop him from talking.

 

It’s futile, considering that Bellamy’s like five times bigger than she is - okay, so maybe it’s only like three to four inches at most, but his muscle adds a couple more bulk to his body, he personally feels - and she lets go immediately when he sticks out his tongue, licking her oddly soft hand.

 

She stares at her hand incredulously, and in the dim light of the surveillance van, he can sort of see his saliva on her pale skin.

 

“Did you just -” she asks, horrified, but Bellamy’s already directed his attention elsewhere, specifically, on the perps that Kane had ordered them to keep an eye on for the night.

 

“Shh, Griffin,” Bellamy waves in her general direction, eyes trained on the cameras. “They’re getting away.”

 

Clarke shakes her hand at him, wiping the wet spot down on his arm (“Ew, really, Griffin? _Real_ mature." "Oh, shut up Blake, that's rich, coming from _you_.”) for a few moments before she really registers his words.

 

“What?!”

 

He shrugs, gesturing to the monitors sitting in front of them.  

 

“They’re getting away, Griffin, and if you actually used your ears for once, we’d be chasing them right now - hey, I’m in the middle of degrading your crappy detective skills, Griffin, where are you going?”

 

“Perp, Blake.” Clarke says by way of explanation, grabbing his gun and slamming it on top of his chest - he pretends that his chest is actually made of rocks and that didn’t hurt in the very least for a couple seconds before he lets breath expel out of his lungs in one giant _whoosh_ \-  while she busts open the door of the van, her own pistol in hand.

 

“Right,” Bellamy nods absently, still lounging in the chair before he realizes that a, he is a cop that has legs that can move of their own accord, and b, he should really get up and give Griffin some backup.

 

Now would be a good time, actually.

 

He counts to ten, to give the perps a courteous twenty second start - he’s nothing if not fair - and also possibly to let the air return to his chest, then leaps out of his chair to get out of the van.

 

Bellamy draws his gun, running into a full sprint, and like always, follows Clarke Griffin to the bad guys.

 

“Ark PD, put your hands up!” He yells as he turns the corner, where Clarke already has the two crooks on the ground, hands behind their backs, and a glare on her face.

 

“Thanks for the backup, Blake,” Clarke says wryly, never once taking her eyes off the groaning perps, one of which already has a dark bruise forming on his face.

 

“No problem.” Bellamy grins, grabbing one and slapping on a pair of cuffs, tightening them a bit more than necessary, chuckling when the dude lets out an annoyed grunt in return.

 

“That’s not what she meant,” the one under Clarke’s scrutiny mutters while she locks him up, and Bellamy rolls his eyes before parading his perp around to the car.

 

“Oh, shut up, Desmond,” Bellamy says, taking great pleasure in shoving him into the backseat. “You flunked the seventh grade, man. _And_ you’re being arrested for drug dealing, so you, fine sir, don’t get to talk about me being smart.”

 

The resulting snicker of Clarke that she immediately tries to cover up when he looks her way (and the rather constipated look - oh man, if he only had a camera - that occurs when her hand flies to her mouth) is pretty much worth it, along with the grudgingly low, “That was a dope burn," from the other perp.

 

Not gonna lie, it makes him feel incredibly badass.

 

More badass than he actually is, anyway. You know, because he’s _Bellamy Blake_ , one of the best officers the precinct Nine-Nine of Ark City has ever seen, with the tendency to make up fake back stories (to solidify his fake personas, obviously) and send out pretty damn good zingers, if he does say so himself.

 

Man, it feels good to be a cop.

 

___

 

“That’s 57 to 55!” Bellamy crows, erasing his score and writing a seven in place of his five, and pointing at Clarke, wiggling his body in tune the remix version of “ _Damn It Feels Good to be a Gangsta_ ” that Jasper Jordan, nerd extraordinaire and unfortunately, his partner, was currently blasting from his portable boombox.

 

(“Seriously, Jordan? A boombox? Who even owns one anymore?” “I do, Blake.” “Yeah, but who gets more girls?” “... I see your point, but you know, I already bought the stupid thing and used it, so I can’t return it.”)

 

“Suck it, Griffin.” he says, sticking out his tongue as he pulls ahead in their petty little bet - yet again, he gleefully reminds her unamused face - as Murphy yanks a piece of string that releases a bunch of confetti into the air in celebration, a party hat sitting crooked while his face betrays absolutely no emotion.

 

(Man, he's really got to learn how to do that.)

 

“Yay, Bellamy’s in the lead,” Murphy claps slowly, drawling flatly, shooting Clarke a smirk as the blonde glares angrily at the whiteboard, mouth twisted into a scowl.

 

“You’re two perps behind, Griffin,” Raven taunts, brushing several donut crumbs off her black leather jacket. “You might as well just go on that date with Blake right now."

 

“I’ll go on that date when hell freezes over.” Clarke hisses, slamming down her hand angrily on the table, which spills her steaming mug of coffee all over Miller, who yelps as the steaming liquid seeps into his pants.

 

Bellamy has no sympathy for his friend - he knew exactly what he was getting into when he decided to sit next to Clarke Griffin, an anger-ridden monster that was probably related to the Hulk on some emotional level (she had to be; she stormed through a door with five locks on it after she found out her girlfriend ditched her for another chick and ended up without any bruises or aches afterward).

 

 _She's practically a nuclear bomb with heels_ , Bellamy muses, as she continues to march around the briefing room.

 

"I’m going to win this goddamn bet and getting his goddamn car even if it’s going to kill me!”

 

“Ouch.” Jasper whistles lowly, looking Bellamy for his reaction, and all Bellamy can do is give a full blown grin as he watches her leave the briefing room.

 

“Keep your tongue in your mouth, Blake - we don’t need slobber all over the floor.” Raven says, and the resulting laughter that follows, plus the shit-eating grin that Jasper sends him after he switches the track to _“Never Gonna Give You Up”_ is mildly embarrassing.

 

Only mildly, because Bellamy is a god and he doesn't stoop down to the despicable levels of filthy mortals. He doesn't get embarrassed, and he doesn't blush.

 

(Lie. Lie. That is so a lie, and if Octavia was here, she'd gladly tell all of them about the Blushing Incident of '09.)

 

(Oh god, he still shudders when he just thinks about it.)

 

But anyway, he's not blushing. He's _not_.

 

Bellamy Blake does not blush. He is a grown man and blushing is for _pansies_ and, if we're being particular here, Jasper Jordan -

 

“Aw, guys, he’s blushing,” Murphy drones in that happy but sarcastic tone that he always manages to pull off, and Bellamy resists the urge to chuck a stapler at his face.

 

“Shut up. It’s a - a hereditary skin disease.” Bellamy finishes lamely, finishing his coffee, feeling his cheeks burn at Murphy’s mocking tone.

 

“Nah, that’s just your ugly face,” Raven snarks, a smirk on her face, and she obliges Murphy with a celebratory high five.

 

“Nice one, Reyes.” Murphy says as he pulls out his phone, probably to tweet about the sick burn that Raven had just dropped on Bellamy.

 

“I aim to destroy people’s self - esteem, Murphy. You know, usual Tuesday stuff,” Raven deadpans, lifting her own mug of coffee to her lips, and scarily enough, Bellamy can’t really tell if she’s joking or not.

 

Because, honestly, in the five years that he’s been on the Nine-Nine with her, there are exactly three things that he knows about Raven Reyes -- she doesn’t smile (like ever; the most people can get out of her is a smirk), she doesn’t like cream cheese, and she wears black leather jackets.

 

And two of those things are physical attributes that were pretty much clear upon meeting her, so, it’s safe to say that she is not exactly an ‘open book' kind of gal.

 

“You all belong in the pits of hell.” Bellamy complains, caving in and tossing eraser shavings at the both of their heads as he walks out of the room.

 

“I actually have teatime with Satan on Mondays, so, if you want I can get an appointment for you!” Murphy calls out, cackling as Bellamy flips him off.

 

“I’ll have you know, Blake, I’m a great assistant! I could totally make it happen!”

 

The taunting call of “Nice one, Murph,” and the resounding high five follows him out the door, mocking him with every step he takes.

 

God, he _has_ to get new friends.

 

___

 

“I can’t _believe_ you!” Clarke furiously slams down the paperwork - which is all kinds of gross in its own entirety and kind of the equivalent to leave moldy cheese on his desk - heaving with anger, face flushed red.

 

Bellamy's too horrified by the sudden appearance of paperwork on his desk - gah, _paperwork;_  the three syllables just send his mind into shock by just thinking about it - to dignify her with a response.

 

“Bellamy Blake, I know there’s a brain somewhere in that cavern you call a head! I can’t believe you bribed the evidence locker to misfile the evidence just so I could lose this stupid bet!” Clarke yells, and he feels like he’s in the Splash Zone at SeaWorld, because, _man_ , say it, don’t spray it.

 

“So,” he says, drawing it out so she’ll stop spitting at him like it’s the Wild Wild West (spoiler alert: it’s not), wheeling around to face her, tips of his fingers tapping against each other, “what I’m hearing is, you think I’m smart.”

 

“Can you just be serious for once?” Clarke says exasperatedly, and if Bellamy’s looking at her face (which, he’s not) he can sort of see tears gathering in her eyes.

 

(She has really nice, blue eyes, but Bellamy will tell everyone they’re green with a little bit of yellow in them - for the demon that she’s hosting, of course; he’s not stupid, he’s seen Supernatural - if they suspect that he actually likes Clarke Griffin.)

 

“One,” he lifts up a finger, not even deigning to get up, “I would not do that to you Griffin, your terrible detective skills are already costing you this bet. Two, the idiots in the evidence locker can’t even tell a knife from a machete, so in reality, it’s your fault for trusting them with your case. And three - are you crying?”

 

The last three words are said rather incredulously, because he remembers that one time a couple years ago when they all celebrated with a drink after a super successful drug bust, and two-drink Clarke had loudly declared, “I haven’t cried since my dad got murdered.”

 

Needless to say, they _all_ drank a little bit more after that.

 

But now she’s here, three years later, and he’s pretty sure that she’s crying, breaking what he’s sure is a ten year dry spell ( _in both ways, if you get my drift_ , he thinks, and resists the urge to smirk, because that would probably be bad).

 

Clarke rubs at her eyes, which is definitely a tell-tale sign of crying - yeah, smirking would not have been good; he would've looked more of a douchebag that he usually is - and lets out a petulant, “No.”

 

Bellamy fights the urge to get up and hug her, which would be inadvisable with a capital I, and also awkward, mostly because Clarke’s just awkward in general and he doesn't know if that’d be overstepping any lines or anything.

 

“C’mon Griffin,” he settles on, tapping her shoulders while he gets up and walking past the gate doors, “Let’s go sort this shit out.”

 

“What?” she chokes out, like she didn’t hear him, and he refrains from rolling his eyes at her.

 

“I’m trying to do you a favor here, Clarke,” he groans when he sees that she’s not following, and turns around, grabbing her shoulders and forcefully propelling her towards the damn lockers.

 

“Oh,” she says, and he ignores the way that her shoulders relax just a little as she leans into him.

 

He definitely ignores the really nice smell of her shampoo wafting over him as she does so.

 

(It does smell really nice though, like lavender and spearmint.)

 

(He likes lavender. He likes spearmint. But he as he keeps on saying, he doesn't like Clarke Griffin. Don’t look at him like that, Murphy - he _doesn’t!_ )

 

___

 

“He’s looking, Blake!” Clarke hisses, grabbing onto his tie in a straight panic, her eyes widening with something that looks like scared - she should really stop doing that, because wide-eyed Clarke is currently doing something to his heart and might make him do something stupid, like hug her.

 

Or kiss her, you know - a panicky Clarke makes him want to wrap his arms around her and bury his nose in her hair, or - something of equal stupidity.

 

(He’ll shut up now.)

 

“What do we do?” She panics, hands flying around her face, and okay, he really hopes this doesn’t backfire in his face - he kisses her.

 

It’s a really good kiss, and if he’s being honest, he didn’t expect her to be such a good kisser.

 

Not that he’s been dreaming about the curve of her lips, or her tongue, or how soft her hair is (it really is) or anything.

 

Okay, that’s a huge lie.

 

Bellamy Blake, as usual, is actually a despicable human being who is, in fact, a masochist.

 

And while they’re expressing facts, Clarke Griffin is a fucking _amazing_ kisser.

 

He’s trying to keep his kisses slow, soft, gentle, because they are work partners and they don’t need to add any more complications to their relationship, but _god_ , she’s making it so hard.

 

Bellamy’s trying to be the gentleman here, only limiting himself to touching her cheek and her face (neck kisses are a no, definitely a no) but her fingers are running across his back - oh my god, she just palmed his _ass_ , woah, he did not know Clarke was this kinky - and did he say she’s making this really hard?

 

It’s really hard to think with her tongue in her mouth. Like, really, _really_ hard.

 

(Like somebody downstairs - yep, okay, he’s going to shut up now.)

 

This is for certain, though: he’s going to hell and die in a fiery explosion involving several helicopters, five black badass bulletproof sedans, and two machine guns. He’ll put a machete in his mouth for the hell of it.

 

(He’s already got it all planned out, but with the way Clarke is currently grinding on him, he’s pretty sure that death is going to come along quicker than he’d anticipated.)

 

She’s sucking on his neck now, the horndog, and he takes this opportune moment to glance at the perp, who has resumed to talking with the other guy and concluding the transaction.

 

And he’s now … walking away.

 

“Griffin,” he says gruffly, hating how breathless he sounds, and she just makes a small moan in the back of her throat (which is so fucking sexy on all different kinds of levels) while she continues sucking on his very willing person.

 

It feels nice, and well, if Bellamy were a better man - which, he is _so_ not - he’d stop her right now.

 

But he lets them get a twenty second head start (hey, like he said, he’s nothing but courteous) and enjoys the feel of Clarke for just a bit more, and then groans, leaning his forehead on hers.

 

“Perp, Griffin.” He repeats the words that she said to him not too long ago, pulling back from her really nice ministrations, slapping her ass before he pulls out his gun, and starts to run.

 

Because if the perps aren’t going to kill him, well, Clarke definitely is going to.

 

___

 

“Let me get this straight,” Jasper says, feet up on his desk, cup of instant noodles in his hand, “You kissed Clarke Griffin -  as in 'hate your guts and threatens to puke every time you come close to her' Clarke Griffin?”

 

“Say it louder, why don’t you?” Bellamy says irritably, resisting the urge to drag his arm along his desk and sweeping all of his stuff off of it.

 

Jasper Jordan, as always, tends to take every fucking thing that comes out of his mouth literally, has hopped onto his chair within the two and a half seconds that Bellamy’s taken his eyes off the damned man, and yells, “Hey guys! Get this - Bellamy Blake, our lord and savior, made out with Detective Clarke Griffin in a completely professional work setting!”

 

He groans into his hands, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard that he wishes they’d fall out, because it would be a lot better than looking at everyone’s shocked faces.

 

He’s just lucky that the universe loves him and that today’s the day that Clarke Griffin is late - oh wait, nope, there she is right now walking through the precinct doors and his life is going to end right now because he is going to simultaneously combust into flames.

 

Of complete and utter embarrassment, mind you.

 

“What’s going on?” she asks when she presumably has reached her desk  - Bellamy doesn’t want to look for fear of looking even more stupid than he normally does.

 

Raven takes the liberty of answering for him, and he just goddamn _knows_ that she has a smirk on her fucking face, because she’s Raven Reyes, the queen of smirks and snarky comebacks.

 

“We’re talking about how you guys totally made out when you were supposed to be catching Drexler.”

 

“I tweeted about it, and it currently has -” Murphy drones, grinning as he lifts up his phone, “200 favorites and nineteen, oh, make that twenty retweets. There’s even a hashtag trending for you guys, aw, how cute.”

 

His tone of voice indicates that it’s anything but, and Bellamy is way too mortified to care.

 

“Bellamy!” Clarke hisses, horrified, and slaps him upside the head with a file of paperwork. “Why did you tell them about, you know, the thing?”

 

(He swears, Clarke just has paperwork hidden _everywhere_ ; the obsession that she has with it is borderline creepy.)

 

“I called it!” Monty grins, triumphant, and sticks out a hand. “Pay up, nuggets.”

 

Nuggets? 

 

He refrains from calling out, "That term died in the 1980s, along with your clothes, Monty," because he's really in no position to make life destroying comments when they're discussing his (lack of) love life in terms of Clarke Griffin.

 

Murphy groans, and so does Raven, while Miller just dutifully pecks his boyfriend on the cheek while placing a crumpled twenty in his hand.

 

Relationships are so gross. Disgusting. They’re terrible, horrific, gruesome, and absolutely appalling - he might just want to get in one with Clarke.

 

“You bet on us?” Bellamy asks incredulously, mainly because this is a very new development in his relationship with one Detective Clarke Griffin that he’d never thought would happen, but it was apparently so clear to everyone else in the precinct that they hadn’t told him.

 

(He could’ve been kissing her months before! Months!)

 

“Hell yeah we did,” Monty grins, pocketing the money, “Easiest three hundred bucks I’ve ever made.”

 

“That’s the part you focus on?” Clarke asks incredulously, slapping him once again with the paperwork, and Bellamy wonders if she’s that rough in the bedroom -

 

“Ow!” he exclaims, rubbing his head ruefully, glaring at her from the corner of his eyes.

 

“You really can’t shut your mouth, can you?” she says derisively, then realizes her mistake too late.  
  


“No -”

 

This time, the whole office joins in with him as they chorus, “Title of your sex tape!” exploding into giggles after.

 

“I hate you.” she mutters, arms crossed as she takes her seat at her desk, the crowd dispersing, muttering angrily about how they weren’t going to see any kissing, the perverts.

 

“Yeah, but you made out with me, so, what does that say about you?” Bellamy smirks, swivelling around so that he’s facing the monitor, and by definition, her as well.

 

“That I have seriously bad taste in men?” She arches an eyebrow, returning to her paperwork. “Besides, it was a spur of the moment thing, so don’t read too much into it, Blake.”

 

“Harsh,” he jokes, shooting her a finger gun. “But I’ll have you know, Griffin, that it was _you_ who had your hands all over _me_.”

 

She scoffs, and he shoots her an incredulous look.   
  


“It’s true! Actually,” he says, voice growing louder, smirk widening, “if I remember correctly, it was you who groped - I’m talking pervy old man grope here, guys, it was seriously passionate. If I had to rate it on a scale of one to fucking amazing, I’d have to say it was hella dope -”

 

“O _kay_ , that’s enough. Don’t you have some work to do, Blake?” Clarke squeaks out, flustered, and yeah, okay, even her blushing is pretty.

 

Who in the hell _blushes_ prettily? Totally unfair.

 

“Oh yeah,” he says instead, feigning nonchalance, as he props his feet on his desk. “Nah, I’m letting you catch up, since I’m beating you by five whole cases. Mhm, that’s right, Griffin. Five. Whole. Cases.”

 

“What?” Clarke squawks, and rushes over to the whiteboard, and sure enough, it’s a five case deficit, just like Bellamy had said.

 

“Suck it!” he crows when she returns, but she just shoots him a smirk - which is entirely unfair, he winning but he still feels like he’s losing, what the actual _fuck_ (Clarke Griffin should just be eradicated from the face of the earth entirely; these faces that she’s making at him are unfairly distracting) - while pointing at him with a finger.

 

“Title of your sex tape!”

 

“Clarke Griffin,” he says, appalled, putting his hand to his chest in his mock surprise, “Did you just ‘title of your sex tape’ me?”

 

“Yes I did, Blake. What are you going to do about it?” she shoots back, all smug, and _man_ , he’s so far gone it’s not even funny.

 

“Just get in a relationship already,” Murphy yells from his desk, interrupting the moment, “I need that two hundred bucks to further my dance career.”

 

“Shut it, Murphy, you know that dream of yours isn’t going to go anywhere!” Raven returns, tossing a wadded up paper ball in his direction.

 

“Excuse you Reyes, but you and I know perfectly well that Floorgasm is going to sweep the world by storm.” He shrugs his shoulders, brushing away a piece of stray hair that Bellamy assumes to be there, but honestly can’t see. “My fabulous self is in it, so it’s obviously going to be more successful than Beyoncé, bitches. It’s a fact. Just embrace it. It's just like how we all know Monty and Miller make out in the copy room on Tuesdays.”

 

“What?” Jasper squeaks, and everyone turns to him incredulously.

 

“You didn’t know that?” Bellamy demands - by the stricken look on his face, Jasper did, in fact, not know that there were rendezvouses of the romantic variety that took place in the copy room on Tuesdays.

 

“No!” Jasper exclaims, horrified, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

 

“You’re a detective, how did you _not_ know?”

 

“Besides,” Bellamy interjects, “they’re louder than Clarke’s three alarm clocks in the morning combined, and they’re all set to the ship fog horn sound.”

 

“I like my sleep,” She says by way of explanation, and Bellamy shrugs, because that is actually a valid human reason, though he still doesn't understand how she’s not deaf yet.

 

“I didn’t know,” Jasper says horrified, more to himself than anything, but then to make matters worse, everyone proceeds to regale him with tales out how they’d first found out about the surprisingly really horny couple.

 

A normal day at the Nine-Nine, really.

 

___

 

“I … lost,” Clarke gapes at Bellamy, who gestures in a bunch of criminals at the same time - he thinks that the best part, the kicker, is that they all have the same name (the same exact name! What are the fucking _odds_?) - that she brings one measly perp in.

 

“Yep!” He grins, popping the p, and flicking his sleeve down to see the shiny glass of his watch. “And, unless you bring in nine more guilty people within the next ten seconds, Griffin, you get to go on a date with me!”

 

“Jasper, get the music ready!” He yells, pointing at his partner’s desk, and wonders how exactly he should celebrate - should he flaunt it in her face? Should he just gracefully accept it and then sneak into the bathroom later and do a victory dance later?

 

You know what, fuck it, YOLO - he’s going to flaunt it in her face.

 

“Three!” Murphy drones again, looking at his phone, like this isn’t something monumental for Bellamy - honestly, Murphy should know better, being his childhood friend for _ages_ \- he’s been wanting to rub something in Griffin’s face since, like, birth.

 

Not really, since he's pretty sure babies don't have object permanence, but just know that he’s been wanting to do this for a long time.

 

“Two!” Raven moves her lips in a something that sorta resembles a smile - he can never tell with her, to be honest - gripping her phone in an attempt to grab the astonished look on Griffin’s face when she fucking loses the bet.

 

“One!” Miller - stone cold Miller, Bellamy’s been taking to calling him, due to how little he shows emotions, excluding, of course, when talking to his boyfriend, Monty - even grins, nodding at Bellamy with something that kinda looks like respect (holy crap, winning this bet thing with Griffin is totally winning him some sweet points in the Nine-Nine), and when they all say _zero_ , with a bunch of confetti streaming into the air, it feels like he’s on top of the fucking world.

 

Then, as it always does, it gets better.

 

“Will you,” he smirks, getting down on one knee, whipping out a cheap plastic ring with a ridiculously large gem poised on top that he spent the whole of a minute looking for - he actually got it for 39 cents at the dollar store - what a steal, right?

 

“Clarke Griffin, go on what could possibly be the worst date in the history of your dates - which to be honest, shouldn’t be too hard; I’m betting that nearly all of your dates ended in piss poor to mediocre sex -”

 

Clarke acknowledges his statement with a slight incline of her head and a small grunt, “You’re not wrong there,” before glancing at the rest of the precinct, who’s gone incredibly quiet with a defensive, “What?”

 

“Anyway,” Bellamy says, unable to keep the delight out of his tone with just how _predictable_ the stiff detective Griffin was (maybe he should consider starting a psychic practice), “Would you like to have the honor, Clarke Griffin, of going on a date with me?”

 

Clarke furrows her brows, and sends him a glare that would render a lesser man shaking in his boots, but Bellamy grew up with Octavia Blake as a sister  - he’s practically immune to things like that.

 

“Just remember,” he shoots her the most shit-eating grin he’s ever sent - it’s all in the tilt of the head, he’ll tell anyone who will listen - as he reminds her, “you can’t say no.”

 

“I hate you so much,” she mutters under her breath, grabbing his fingers with reluctance as the whole office explodes into a giant maelstrom of flashes from phone cameras.

 

(Raven facebooks the picture, and within twenty minutes, there are five hundred likes. Five hundred. And various comments of the 'Bellamy Blake is so hot' and 'Clarke Griffin is one lucky woman to be dating that hunk' variety - okay, not really, but it’s close enough, and he’ll take that.)

 

(Besides, he _won_ a motherfucking bet with Clarke Griffin, and she hates to lose, so, that’s pretty much enough for him.)

 

Bellamy’s glad to say that he’s at the center of attention, and the look that Clarke’s giving him clearly says, “i hate you so much” but she grudgingly nods and accepts the ring.

 

“I’ll go on that stupid date with you.”

 

“Great to hear! I’m thinking,” he says with a great flourish of his arms as he wraps his hands around her surprisingly petite and curvy waist, flipping them around so they can pose for the cameras, “someplace rather low key - I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty much living out of my car right now - like a strip club, or maybe a rave.”

 

He shrugs, whispering into her ear gruffly, voluntarily choosing to ignore the shiver that runs down her back when he does so, because, c’mon, she’s Clarke Griffin, daughter of Abby Griffin, the police chief. And he’s Bellamy Blake, resident goofball, the charity project of Ark PD, the street rat they’d picked up off the back alleyways of the nine nine precinct.

 

They’d never work.

 

It’s a fact that he thinks has been pretty much clear since day one, like how Raven only wears black leather jackets.

 

He doesn’t sweat it - he knows he’s got no chance with her.

 

So he just lets himself have this one little victory, mainly because there probably isn’t going to be anything as sweet ever again, and rubbing this in Griffin’s face is most likely going to be the highlight of his career.

 

“But I mean, there’s always the boring options, like dinner at a restaurant, or a movie.”

 

“Yeah,” she says, voice shaky and hoarse and with a little too much honesty within that phrase, even amidst the shouts and jeering, “there’s always that.”

 

(They end up going to the movies, Bellamy officially ends up in debt, but he couldn't be any happier, because after that, he goes on a lot more dates with her. And luckily for Clarke, the dates don’t end in mediocre sex. In fact, she’ll tell to anyone who will listen, that it's pretty fucking fantastic.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you'd like to ask for another drabble, i may post more in this universe if you prompt me to @ [ grounderbell ](http://grounderbell.tumblr.com/)on tumblr
> 
> if anyone's interested in the characters, this is how i imagined them to be:
> 
> jake - bellamy  
> amy - clarke  
> rosa - raven  
> male vers. of gina - murphy  
> boyle - jasper  
> vivian - maya (in this universe he marries vivian)  
> teddy - finn  
> terry - miller  
> holt - kane
> 
> & monty's just a random filler character bc he's miller's boyfriend ofc but also officE ROMANCE


End file.
